


Water of the Womb

by vidoxi



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Child Abuse, Dacryphilia, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sibling Incest, saeyoung putting up with saeran's bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-20 01:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9469601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vidoxi/pseuds/vidoxi
Summary: His lips move against mine with a sort of painful sweetness, like he's trying to capture the feeling of the innocence we never had.The tenderness of it all is too much.I can't stand it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i just finished reading the secret endings and immediately started writing this lol. archive warning for underage is there for a reason, though its only relevant for the very beginning.

We were 11 when our relationship took a turn for the non-platonic. Saeyoung was the catalyst, of course. When isn't he? He was always the first of us to discover something, or figure something out. Fitting of an older brother, even if he's only older by minutes. 

The first day it happened I was huddled in a corner in the living room, crying and nursing a cigarette burn on the back of my hand. The stinging pain on my left cheek from being backhanded dulled in comparison to the hot pulsing of my burn. Mom had just stormed out of the house a moment ago, screaming that she couldn't stand my whining for one more minute. Saeyoung was out of hiding not a second after she left. I didn't blame him for laying low, and when he was the one getting the brunt of our mother's abuse, he didn't blame me. There was no stopping her; trying to stand up for one another simply got us both hurt. So we were there for each other how we could be, a shoulder to bury our tear-streaked faces in, quiet murmured assurances to each other, a distraction once we'd calmed down some. Though it was mostly Saeyoung doing the comforting. 

When my crying had died down to the occasional hiccup or shudder, he had looked at me with that look, the one where a curious light shines in his sharp yellow eyes, and I knew to anticipate something interesting. I wondered if I ever looked even half as clever as he did in those moments, and thought probably not. 

He released his chewed-at bottom lip from between his teeth and said, "I want to show you something." 

"What is it?" I had sniffed, expecting him to bring out some toy he had found from his pocket.

I was pretty confused when his hand was in my underwear soon after. We saw each other naked all the time, so the fact that he was touching me there didn't stir anything in me other than innocent curiosity. My body's eventual response, however, was more alarming. 

"Saeran, that hurts," he had winced, and I realized that I had been unconsciously digging my nails into his shoulder blade. "Do you want me to stop...? It doesn't feel good?" He had started to withdraw his hand from my pants and I had reflexively clamped onto his wrist with both hands, keeping him in place. 

'Good'? Is that how this felt? The new feelings were overwhelming and I wasn't sure. But it must have been, given that I distinctly remember giving a shaking plea that he continue. I came for the first time into his hand. I felt robbed of giving him the same experience, that his first time was with himself and not me. But I had time to make up for it. Night time had a new activity for us other than whispered speculation about what the lives of other children must be like, the ones that go to the place called school, and have families who love them. The thought of getting to go to sleep, to be blissfully unconscious for a while, had always been what I'd looked forward to most in the day, but now it was what we did before sleep. It's pretty sick in hindsight, the thought that I got through my mother's abuse easier by comforting myself with the thought that later I'd get to have sex or something like it with my male twin. 

After cleaning up we'd separate as we always did, laying side by side in our shared bed, me on the left and him on the right, our fingers loosely threaded together beneath the blanket. I wonder if we instinctively knew that incest was wrong, or if we simply feared our mother, scared that her seeing us cuddling with one another would make her separate us somehow. She never liked seeing us happy.

When Saeyoung left when we were 15, the lack of warmth next to me in bed was unbearable. I was never more keenly aware of his absence than at night, and I could only sleep by passing out from sheer exhaustion. I had countless sleepless nights, laying on his side of the bed in a desperate attempt to feel closer to him, face buried in his pillow and just crying, crying, crying. 

It probably sounds ridiculous to someone who's not me, but it didn't even occur to me that masturbation was something I could do by myself. It had always been us. I never felt like it anyway after he left, but after a while my body seemed to take care of it by itself, and I'd wake up with a damp spot coloring my pants. It was some time after joining Mint Eye that I started touching myself again. Even when I was full of fury and sorrow, feeling nothing but bitter hatred for him, the only thing I saw behind my eyelids was the way his face, cut through with moonlight from our bedroom window, would tense and twitch more and more as he'd get closer to orgasm, how I could tell by just the sound of his quickened breathing leaving his saliva-wet lips that he was close. I couldn't even imagine anything other than the feeling of his hands on me. His hands, touching me exactly how I liked, because it was also the way he liked to be touched.

I'm watching those same hands right now as he brings the can of PhD Pepper to his lips. I watch the contour of his throat as he tilts his head back to empty the last dregs of the can, and I watch the edge of his fingers get white from pressure as he squeezes the empty can until it's mostly flat. 

The one he had set in front of me remains unopened. 

Well, not for long, as he's promptly popping to tab on that one now. 

"There's more in the fridge," he reminds me, as if I might have forgotten since the last time he told me. "You okay? Need anything?" 

His gold eyes meet mine briefly, and flick back down to fiddling with some kind of motherboard when I respond in the negative. I know he's bothered a little by being watched but I don't mind seeing him squirm a bit. I like watching him. He jokingly told me yesterday that if I want to see him so bad I could go look in the mirror, but that's not true. We have not been identical in a long, long time. I don't even remember a time when I wasn't paler than him, skinnier than him, somehow smaller than him in presence even, as if the inadequacy somehow spread to my soul too. Not to mention our eyes are a quick giveaway. I don't mean only the color either. My eyes hold the cold ferocity of a starving animal, sharp and wary. His eyes couldn't be more different. So soft and warm, full of patience and forgiveness and pity. Sometimes I imagine cutting them out. 

"Do you want to know what I'm working on?" He quirks a little half smile, face friendly and open.

He can't go for long without making noise, I've noticed. Was he always like that? Talkative? Have I just gotten less talkative? 

"Not really," I reply. 

He drops it immediately, like he always does. His smirk fades slowly and now his shoulders are hunching just slightly more than they did before. I imagine to other people he might hide his emotions well but to me he's clearer than glass. 

"What are you working on?" I find myself asking after just a couple seconds.

He brightens immediately. "Her birthday's coming up, so I'm making another robot cat like the one I made before, except this one's personality will be based on hers," he explains, looking pleased with himself. "I'm programming it so that it can interact with the other robot as well."  
I don't need to ask who "her" is. His eyes wouldn't light up like that over that Jaehee Kang woman I'm sure. Some kind of emotion twists my stomach but I decide not to examine it, instead letting it sit inside me like a rock. He hasn't been able to see her much lately, because of me being here. I don't know why he doesn't hate me.

"And Yoosung seemed to really like the dog I made, the one that breathes fire. I'm thinking of taking out the fuel tank and replacing it with like, a glitter cannon or something, and giving it to him. He probably needs to clean his dorm anyway." 

His eyes sparkle with mischief, crinkling slightly at the corners. The sides of his mouth pull up, one side slightly higher than the other, showing a flash of white teeth. It's a familiar expression, one I'd occasionally see on his more youthful face during a rare moment of humor in our childhood. I feel another stab of emotion, this one more like a thorn in my chest, and try to commit how he looks right now to memory, wishing my eyes could be like a camera. The irony of this isn't lost on me. That before I never wanted to look at him, wanted only for him to get out of my sight. Now that I've resigned myself to this... existing... I feel like I can't see enough of him. He has changed so much, and yet remains so familiar that looking at him feels like coming home. I wonder if he recognizes shades of who I used to be at all. 

Well. It's my turn to reply again. I've never been great at casual conversation. 

"You're generous with your friends," I offer.

"Sometimes. I want to be generous with you too, Saeran."

I'm not sure what to say to that, so instead I just admire the precision and finesse of his hands as he works. 

Judging by his worsening posture and the way he's occasionally rubbing at his face, he's getting tired. He's up and down a lot, sometimes only sleeping in 30 minute or so bursts, so it's unpredictable when he's awake, but it's nearly 4:30am and he's been up for a while now. It's not long before he yawns and stretches his arms above him, arching his back with a small pop of stiffened joints. 

"I think I'm going to bed," he announces. 

I nod and we both get up at the same time, going to our shared bathroom and brushing our teeth together. We go down the hall to where we part ways every night, him to his room and me to the guest bedroom ("your bedroom," he'd always correct me). We turn to face each other as we always do. 

"Goodnight, Saeran. Can I hug you?" 

He always asks me that. Always seeking permission, except in circumstances where I've been about to hurt myself. For a long time I always said no, and yet he'd keep asking, every night. Lately I've begun saying yes, though not every time. Hugging him feels... overstimulating. Too much warmth, too much of his familiar smell, too many tangled feelings wrapped around me like steel wire, threatening to slice me into a million pieces. I crave more of it and yet it feels like pressing on a raw nerve. 

I wet my lips to stall for time as I try to decide. I want to say yes but my throat works against me, instead forcing out a hollow "no".

He's looking at me with that concerned expression again. It used to cause a rush of anger in me so swift and strong it'd make me dizzy, but now it's... less. I don't have the energy for it anymore.

"Okay. See you tomorrow." He gives me one more lingering look and turns for his bedroom. 

"Saeyoung," his name seems to come out of it's own accord. He glances over his shoulder, eyes widened just slightly, lips parted a fraction. "I want... " 

The statement is sticking in my throat. I mentally kick myself for saying anything at all. Now the words are hanging in the air between us and he's waiting on me to finish. Stupid. Stupid.

He's not pressing me to go on. He's thinking of me as a wary deer, any sudden movements likely to make me run off. The sudden possibility of being rejected is stoppering my words like a cork. Fear quickens my pulse. I don't know how long we stand like that for, and I don't know how I'm able to say the next thing that I do. I think maybe part of me wants to be rejected. Do it now rather than later when I've deluded myself into thinking he'll accept me. 

"Can I sleep with you?" My face feels hot. "Tonight," I add after a moment, as if that needed to be clarified. 

He lets out the breath he'd been holding and smiles. I look past him, at somewhere over his shoulder, unable to meet his eyes suddenly. 

"Yes, of course," he says softly. "Like old times, huh? Come on then."

He goes ahead. At first my feet seem rooted to the ground, but after a second or two I manage to follow, regret already creeping up inside me. Suddenly all I want is the solitude of the guest bedroom. My inner thoughts are silenced when I see him withdraw his arms into his shirt and start to wiggle out of the garment, pulling it over his head. It ruffles his hair and makes his glasses lopsided. His body is so toned. He doesn't have abs, though I'm sure he would if he drank less soda and ate less of those weird chips. His arms and shoulders are impressive, however. When he strips down to his underwear, I notice the outer of his thighs looking muscular, while his inner thighs are more like his stomach, plush and soft looking. 

He leaves his clothes in a heap on the floor, like I knew he would. I've slept fully clothed for years now, but it seems unfair to him for him to be the only one exposed. After a moments hesitation I pull my shirt up over my head too, also letting it fall to the ground. He doesn't gasp like I thought he would over seeing my scarred body, but the surprise is plain on his face, and his hand rests on the crucifix on his chest (does he really wear that constantly?). I kick off my pants and we stand there, just looking at each other. Identical bodies looking so very different. 

He's the first of us to move, pulling back the blankets on the bed. His bed is large, a king size I think, and yet he seems to sleep on the right side only, rather than in the middle. We get into his bed and he turns out the lamp on the night stand. He still sleeps on his side, with one arm curled beneath the pillow, and so do I. Facing each other. Our hands find each other beneath the blanket, fingers threading together loosely. It's such a reflexive action, even after all these years. We don't say anything but I know that we're marveling at the same thing.

He brings our clasped hands up to his face and kisses the back of my hand. "Saeran," he whispers, and I tense as if I'm about to be punched. "I missed you so, so much."

There's no fighting the painful lump in my throat, nor blinking back the beginnings of tears. Like a flipped switch I'm crying almost immediately. He closes the gap between us instantly, holding me like so tightly, as if I'm in danger of being ripped away in an instant. He cradles the back of my head as my crying escalates into sobs so vigorous that they're making my body ache. His fingers are in my bleached hair, and he buries his face in my neck, and I can feel wet against my skin. 

"Saeran, Saeran, _Saeran,"_ he says my name like there's magic in it. 

It sounds so good. 

I want his name in my mouth too, but every time I take a breath it gets expelled as a hiccuping, agonized sob. His own tears run in warm rivulets down my neck, pooling at my collar bone. He presses his lips to my jugular, feeling the pulse beneath them, and kisses up my my neck. Soft, open-mouthed kisses along my jaw. When his lips find mine they're wet and salty. His kisses are so gentle, like he's afraid of breaking me. His lips move against mine with a sort of painful sweetness, like he's trying to capture the feeling of the innocence we never had. 

The tenderness of it all is too much. 

I can't stand it. 

I kiss him back fiercely, crushing our lips together. He yelps in surprise as I roll on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head with my hands and shoving my tongue inside his slack and yielding mouth. When he starts kissing me back it's slow and hesitant, and he soon breaks away. 

"Saeran," he says again. His eyes dart back and forth from one of my eyes to the other, like he's searching for something in me. I'm afraid that his next words are going to be to stop. That he doesn't want this. So I say the first thing that comes to mind. 

"Have you been with anyone else?" I try to say it smoothly, but the crying makes my voice hitch and jump in a way I hate, and it sounds more like a pathetic mewl. I swallow thickly and try to get a hold on myself. 

He tenses beneath me and looks guilty when he nods. 

"How many?" I press.

"...Three. Or four. I guess it depends what you... " he trails off, looking pensive, and I lean in to kiss the look away, and hopefully any thoughts of ex-lovers along with it.

He stops me again.

"Have you?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"More than three or four," I answer, voice steadying, and lean down and lick across the seam of his mouth. I take his bottom lip between my teeth and chew it, not hard enough to break the skin but nearly so. He lets out a pained whine and the sound passes down my spine and right to my cock like an electric current. My grip on him tightens.  
"But I always wished they were you." His tongue darts out to soothe his bitten lip, and I capture that in my mouth instead, sucking on it lewdly and drawing out a moan from him. When I release it, strings of saliva hang between our mouths briefly.  
"Even when I hated you." I steady my weight on one hand, still pinning his wrists, and start trailing one hand down his body. I reach his groin and grab his balls and cock through his underwear, rolling them in my palm.  
"You'd be scared if you knew how often I used to imagine raping you." I say it so easily, the choked sound from my voice completely gone now. I squeeze the fistful of him I have in my palm and he stifles a groan and looks up at me with those golden eyes wide and full of unease. The look makes me shudder and wish I had a free hand.  
"If you knew how many times I touched myself to the thought of it. You, with your ankles up by your head, crying and begging me to stop, telling me how sorry you are." He's shuddering now too, but from something different than what I'm feeling, I'm sure. I move his underwear aside and pull out his half hard dick, giving it long, slow strokes as it jumps in my hand.  
"I thought about going in dry, but that doesn't sound like it'd be very pleasant for me either." His chest begins to rise and fall and he pants softly, whether from fledgling panic or pleasure or both I'm not sure.  
"So I decided I'd use your blood instead." I smile down at him. 

"Why are you telling me this?" he whispers.

"Part of me still wants to." I laugh and watch his face closely. "Isn't that fucked up?"

His startled eyes seem glued to my face, like he's trying to detect a lie. When he finds none, his eyes fall from me and he looks a little pale. A nasty kind of happiness blooms within me. I wonder if he might throw up. I speed up my hand. And then he leans up as much as he can with his wrists still pinned and kisses me softly.  
"It's okay. I still love you, Saeran."

My lip curls into a snarl and both my hands leave him, instead coming to grip at the crucifix on his neck. I twist it once so that the chain crosses, then pull it tight so that it digs into the flesh of his neck. It's not strong enough to cut off his air but I'm sure it's enough to make him lightheaded. 

"You love me? What about God? Does God love you? Does he love brother-fuckers? Huh?" I demand, sneering down at him. I pull tighter and his face starts to redden. "Isn't he watching you right now? Aren't you scared of going to hell?" 

"You're more important," he replies at once. "At least if I go to hell I can keep you company."

He's smiling. I can't believe this.

I drop the necklace and resist the impulse to replace it with my hands. "Where's your lube?"

"Night stand, bottom drawer."

How much of an idiot is he for telling me that? Maybe not much of one at all, if he's still thinking about the blood lube thing. Good, I hope he is.

I roll off of him to get the lube and he remains where he is. He hasn't even moved his hands from being above his head. I find the lube and discard of my underwear while i'm up. His eyes linger on my groin. 

"You even bleach your pubes?" He snorts as I pull off his underwear too. 

I slap his stomach hard, relishing the way he jumps and groans. My hand print rises red on his pale flesh. I gather the small roll of chub in my hand and pinch it harshly, pulling it away from his stomach. I'm pleased when he whines and tries to shove my hands away. "Shut the fuck up. What's this, huh? You fat pig." I let it go and slap his stomach again, raising another red hand print on him.

I straddle him, and our identical genitals rub each other. I squirt some of the lube in my hand and I can tell he's surprised when I reach behind myself to probe at my own ass. I get my middle finger inside and part of my index finger too before I wipe the excess lube from my hand on his dick and line him up at my hole. 

"Saeran... That wasn't enough. You're going to hurt yourself."

I ignore him and slowly sink down on his length. He's right. It hurts. My thighs are shaking. His hands start to rub soothingly up my legs but I swat him away. This is good. I like it like this. I start to rock up and down.

"Saeran," he continues to say my name so gently. Why? Why? "Maybe this sounds weird right now, but... I'm so happy that I get to see you like this. I never, in a million years, thought I'd get to see you again, and..." 

"Yeah? Fucking your little brother is really great, huh?" I snap, picking up the pace, slamming my hips down. I think I might be bleeding but I'm not sure. "Does _she_ know you're like this?" 

He doesn't respond. He turns his face away, suddenly not eager to look at me. His eyebrows knit together in a look of worry. I grab his face in one hand and force him to look at me, squeezing his cheeks hard enough that his lips pucker. "I'm talking to you. Does she know you're a faggot? Who fucks his brother, and has since he was little? Huh?"

Rather than look at me he closes his eyes. Finally.

"No," he admits. 

"She's going to leave you," I say viciously, giving his face a little shake before releasing it. "Then you'll know how it feels. Do you want to call her right now and get it over with? Tell her what you're doing right now?" I snatch up his phone from the night stand before he can stop me, the screen coming to life as it's ripped off the charger. He grabs for it but I hold it high above our heads, arm outstretched. I squint to try to see the call history names from this far away. He's yelling at me and grabbing at my elbow as I click her name. I'm about to make the call when he suddenly flips me onto my back, still inside me. The phone flies from my hand and hits the carpet with a dull thump, and rolls across the room. 

"Saeran," he looms above me, hands like a vice on my pale shoulders. His hair hangs forward, framing his tense face. He's angry. Good. He should be. I swallow past the lump in my throat and steel myself for whatever he's about to do. 

"Saeran, I'm not going to leave you. You don't have to be scared." 

"Huh?" 

He sighs and cards his fingers through my hair, face softening. "I said I'm not going to leave you. I love you so much, Saeran."

Tears spring unbidden to my eyes again. "What are you, stupid? Did you not listen to anything I said?" I'm so mad, why am I crying?

I grit my teeth against the pain as he pulls out of me, and watch through blurred vision as he coats his dick generously with more lube. My hands twist anxiously in his sheets.

He leans over me, pressing a kiss to my forehead, and gives a slow, shallow thrust of his hips back inside. "I thought for so long that I'd never see you again. I'm not losing you a second time, Saeran." I let my head fall to the side, unable to meet his too-serious gaze. He cups my jaw, bringing my head straight again. "I wont leave you even if you ask me to, understand? You're stuck with me forever, even when we're old and can't remember which one of us is Saeyoung and which one of us is Saeran. I'm never, ever leaving you." 

I groan as he starts to find a rhythm of fucking me and kissing every inch of my face. When he's kissed all of my face he's down to my neck, then my collarbone. His hands, his hands his hands I love his hands, running up and down my scrawny, scarred body. My legs wrap around his back, pulling him closer to me. His pace is so slow but it's making my toes curl and my stomach muscles flutter. He strokes my dick with one hand and is wiping my tears with the other.

Finally he kisses my mouth, and his tears fall onto my face, running down my cheeks.

"Y-you ca-can't hav-ve any i-idea how mu-much I m-missed you," I choke out, voice garbled. 

"I missed you just as much," he soothes. "It never felt like home without you." He presses his forehead to mine and speeds up his pace slightly, while his thumb presses into my pre-cum leaking slit. 

"Saeyoung," I gasp. "Saeyoung, Saeyoung..." Now that I'm saying it I don't ever want to stop. Morning light is beginning to stream through the window behind his back, casting him in a heavenly glow, the tips of his hair bright as fire. He is so beautiful.

I wrap my arms around him and pull him flush against me as I start to come. He kisses me deeply and hilts himself in me as he shudders through his own orgasm.

We're tangled up in each other, a panting, sweaty mess, with neither of us willing to part. I don't ever want to part. I wish that I could die right now, to let this be the last moment of my life. 

When he lifts his head from my chest to look at me blissfully, his golden eyes like honey, I immediately want to take back that thought. I want more of this. I don't want to be dead. I pet his cheeks with the back of my knuckles and brush his damp bangs out of his face, and something light and perfect swells in my chest. 

"I love you, Saeyoung."


End file.
